Oh, to be famous and travel the globe performing! Sounds so thrilling. And it was a thrill ride for the universally acclaimed Alicia Markova, but not one most people would sign up for. International ballet tours in the 1940s were far more grueling than glamorous, often involving dangerous locales, ghastly heat and humidity, and warped stages with gaping holes.

For Markova, it was all an adventure. She would become the most widely traveled dancer of her generation – often under her own steam, without monetary or management support from a major company – willing to sacrifice comfort and security in order to bring ballet to everyday people everywhere.

Dance rehearsals in extreme heat were not for the faint of heart. (Photo by Gordon Anthony.)

Easy this was not, especially in tropical heat. For anyone suffering through a scorching August day, picture having to wear tights, a multi-layered tutu, and dance for two hours!

And that was often just the beginning of a dancer’s trials. Take Markova’s first trip to South America, where temperatures could reach 120 degrees and air-conditioning in theaters was unheard of. It was 1940 and she had the good fortune to be co-starring at the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo with her best friend, the vivacious prima ballerina Alexandra Danilova.

Alexandra Danilova made grueling tours fun for her pal Markova.

After completing an arduous cross-country US tour in New York, the company was preparing for their international booking when a doctor arrived at rehearsal to administer vaccinations.

Artistic director Léonide Massine insisted that needles go into the dancers’ left legs rather than arms, so if any unsightly skin reaction erupted, tights would provide cover. Markova disagreed, as she had experienced problems with shots in the past and her legs were her livelihood. Massine won the argument. From The Making of Markova:

Danilova and Markova were booked in a “first class” cabin, which they soon discovered was “the size of an average broom cupboard.” The close quarters would seem even more so as the boat went farther and farther south and the weather got increasingly hot and humid.

Danilova and Massine rehearsed while Markova was immobilized with her painful left leg.

About ten days into the trip, Markova’s leg began to swell, eventually ballooning to twice its normal size. The ship’s doctor insisted that she lie still the entire trip with her leg elevated while he attempted to treat the inflammation with various dressings. But the swelling only got worse, hardened and eventually went numb. “I had a left wooden leg. It was like a piano leg,” Markova remembered.

. . . As the ship got closer to landing in Rio de Janeiro, a long list of warnings was issued to the company prior to disembarking. Markova’s stiff leg seemed to pale in comparison. Drinking plenty of bottled water with salt tablets was standard enough advice, but they were also told to avoid alcohol at bars, as local café glasses were known to spread syphilis of the mouth. If that wasn’t dismaying enough, the pretty young corps members were cautioned never to go out alone, as white slavery was a thriving business. Welcome to Rio!

. . . There was just one day to practice before opening night when Markova was scheduled to perform an excerpt from Swan Lake. Wouldn’t you know – that particular scene was danced almost entirely on the left leg. “[T]he heat was agony,” she remembered quite clearly. “I suffered really quite a few days after we were there with that leg.” Though the tights masked her wound, they only made her feel hotter.

The rest of the company wasn’t faring much better. Despite all the health warnings, one after another the dancers fell ill from dysentery, heat prostration, and various other ailments. . . . One evening Markova had to dance the demanding leads in two lengthy ballets and, upon leaving the stage after the final curtain, fainted from exhaustion in the wings.

Dolin and Markova had as much luck fishing in Cuba as they did dancing on a horribly warped stage. At least they had time for lunch with Ernest Hemingway.

Bigger problems than intense heat awaited Markova when she returned to Central and South America in 1947, this time with her Markova-Dolin Company co-founded with longtime partner – and fellow Brit – Anton Dolin.

Again, from The Making of Markova: In Bogota, the British consulate left word that the company was not to leave the hotel, as “there is going to be shooting today.” Only one matinee and evening performance were cancelled. Apparently they were all done shooting the next morning. A sudden revolution also prevented Markova and her partner Anton Dolin from a quick stopover in Nicaragua to dine with an old friend. “So we missed luncheon and the possibility of a bullet in the hors d’oeuvre,” Markova humorously recalled.

The stage was in such bad shape in Cuba, Markova feared her “Dying Swan” might literally live up to its name.

But it was in Cuba that Markova danced on the worst stage of her career – and that’s saying something. She had already maneuvered around holes, slippery marble, sharp tilts, and squished flowers, but the Cuban floorboards were a veritable roller coaster. Due to the incessant heat and humidity, the wood was so warped that it looked more like a Mediterranean tile roof than flooring.

When it came to her personal wardrobe, Markova quickly learned how to pack light and deal with extreme heat while touring. Shopping trips with celebrated modern artist Marc Chagall and his wife proved especially fruitful. The three were in Mexico City in 1942 preparing for Massine’s new ballet Aleko. Commissioned to create the sets and costumes, Chagall produced such astonishingly beautiful designs that they were applauded as loudly as the dancing. (To view those remarkable designs, see my former post “The Colorful Marc Chagall.”) From The Making of Markova:

Perhaps inspired by her Giselle costumes, Markova had lightweight peasant blouses and dresses designed for tours in extreme heat.

“I used to go to the market with Chagall often, and in Mexico at that time, it was very primitive,” Markova later recalled. “You could go to the market and buy all the wonderful cotton materials, and they were all dyed – by the Indians you see – in these fantastic colors. Well, they were almost psychedelic colors: the marvelous candy pinks, and yellow, and oranges. You could choose your materials and choose the lace and everything, and the braids, and design your own, what you had in mind, and then you brought it and you took it to the other end of the market.”

There a “little lady in black” sat at a Singer sewing machine and Markova would show her what she had brought and present her design ideas. Since the fabrics were so cool and lightweight, the ballerina thought them ideal to wear while on tour in stifling climates.

Rather than shop for themselves, the Chagalls used the outdoor marketplace as an inspiration laboratory for costume design; and they too would buy fabrics, intricately cut lace, and decorative trim for the elderly seamstress to stitch up to specifications. (Of course, it was Chagall’s hand painting on the fabrics that made the costumes true works of art.)

The tortuous moves in Aleko combined with extreme heat did Markova in.

When the company later performed Aleko in Los Angeles in July of ’43, the lightweight costumes proved little salvation in oppressive weather conditions. “Dancing in the humid air five nights a week, after rehearsing through a hot, sunny day at the Hollywood Bowl, or in one of the airless dance studios, was having its effect,” recalled Anton Dolin. Even more of an issue was Massine’s diabolically difficult choreography which had felled several dancers in rehearsals. The afternoon of the Hollywood premiere, Markova so severely pulled a muscle that she passed out cold; but with a sold-out crowd of 35,000 for opening night, she had no choice but to go on.

An amazing 35,000 people turned out to watch Markova perform at the Hollywood Bowl in 1943.

From The Making of Markova: The program went on as scheduled and Markova gave her normally fiery performance until almost the end of the ballet. Suddenly she felt a stabbing pain that she just couldn’t dance through and dropped to the stage. Co-star Hugh Laing immediately carried her into the wings and an ambulance was called. Another ballerina quickly took Markova’s place to finish the ballet, which at that point, required only that she be stabbed to death by Laing’s Aleko. But the audience barely paid attention. They were all murmuring about what had happened to Markova.

She would be out of commission for the rest of the summer.

Markova and Dolin made the arduous journey to the Philippines after the war.

By the time Markova and Dolin flew to the bombed-out Philippines in ’48 – a journey so daunting the pair were the only two dancers on the trip – she was an experienced packer for all kinds of weather. Even so, a surprise awaited her in Hawaii – a mid-point booking scheduled to break up the lengthy trip. (In those days it took 4 days just to fly from Hawaii to Manilla!) Despite all her preparations for the tropics, Markova was shocked at how much her feet swelled from the combined heat and humidity. She could barely fit into her ballet shoes. Worse still, the blocking in the toe turned to complete mush. From The Making of Markova:

A panicked telegram was immediately dispatched to Capezio in New York, where all of Markova’s ballet shoes were hand-made, requesting that the company quickly send a dozen new pairs a half-size larger, lighter weight, and with sturdier toe blocks. The shipment arrived well before the departure for the Philippines. Never again would Markova attempt such a trip without a supply of what she now called her “tropical” toe shoes.

The beautiful native Manila costumes worn by the two dancers sharply contrast with the wartime building devastation behind them.

[Awaiting Markova and Dolin in the Philippines was unimaginable devastation: miles of strewn rubble, bombed-out buildings, and a strong military presence.] First on the agenda was checking into the Manilla hotel – or half a hotel, as it turned out. “I remember opening a door next to my suite, which led directly and terrifyingly on to nothingness; the rest of the building had been sheared away by bombing,” Markova wrote in her memoirs. At the hotel’s front desk was the sign PARK YOUR FIRE-ARMS HERE – a none-too-reassuring reminder of daily shootings.

[It hardly mattered. The Filipinos could not have been more gracious or appreciative that the famous dancers had made the dangerous, arduous trip. No dance company had visited the Philippines since Anna Pavlova in 1924, and huge crowds gathered for every performance, many in outdoor fields in the middle of nowhere.] When Markova arrived in Cebu, she was taken to the barren outdoor cinema where she and Dolin would dance that evening. The locals were transforming the site right before their eyes.

When Markova stood on one toe, Filipino audiences gasped in amazement.

For a stage, dozens of upturned lemonade cases were lashed together and covered with a canvas. Off to one side sat a group of Filipino women, who one by one were cutting open old military grain sacks. The flattened fabric was then stitched together and painstakingly decorated with hundreds of wild tuberoses. It was a unique and quite beautiful backdrop. On the other side of the makeshift stage were placed several drained gasoline drums, now filled with fragrant flowers. The scent was so overwhelming, Markova remembered, as if someone had spilled bottles of expensive perfume everywhere.

. . . The entire audience was hypnotized. Every time Markova rose up on her toes, there was an audible gasp. No one could imagine how that was humanly possible. The rapturous reception was the same all over the Philippines, bringing as much joy to the dancers as the worshipful crowds. [For the story of Markova’s performing on another unusual stage in Manila, see my former post “Ballet in a Boxing Ring? It was a knockout!”]

While on tour, Markova loved visiting local ballet schools, as here in Manila, to encourage her passion for dance.

Markova and Dolin also made time to visit one of the local ballet teachers, helping her to develop easy-to-master lesson plans for her newly star-struck dance students.

Before the trip, Dolin wasn’t initially keen on such a grueling journey, but Markova talked him into it. “Whenever people say to me, ‘Oh, you can’t go to a certain place because there is no theater there or there isn’t any public,’ I would always say to Pat [Dolin], that’s where we’re going because it must be opened up.”

Markova beautifully costumed in The Water Lily, 1935 (photo by Gordon Anthony).

Pity the poor ballet costume manager. While researching Markova’s biography, I was continually amazed at the painstaking, and enormously expensive, process of designing, constructing, and maintaining dance costumes for an entire company. Just one loose sequin falling on the stage can cause a dancer to slip and be seriously injured. And even in the grand Ballets Russes days, a single extravagant costume needed to be repeatedly altered to fit each prima ballerina performing the same starring role.

Then there’s the original design. As London’s V & A museum explains, “Dance costume is a highly specialised field and as well as having to reflect the overall concept of the work, body movement, the demands of the choreography of a particular work and the effects of different fabrics in motion all have to be taken into consideration.”

And what happens if those precious costumes somehow never make it to the dancers’ dressing rooms by curtain time? Simply put: no costumes, no show.

As a star performer with the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo, Alicia Markova spent much of World War II criss-crossing the United States by train. The schedule was grueling, with the dancers often spending only one or two days in each city before moving on to the next venue.

And this went on for months.

Though they traveled with their scenery and costumes in a second railcar – quite a time-consuming project to pack and unpack at every stop – wartime needs sometimes intervened. As reported in the Arkansas Gazette in 1942: “Scheduled to give a performance at 8:30 P.M. at the Auditorium yesterday, the [Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo] troupe was unable to appear for the first time in 50 scheduled performances.

No costumes, no performance.

“Coming from Columbus, Missouri, scenery, props and wardrobes were sidetracked at Memphis to allow passage of troop trains. ‘Our performances have run late before due to delay of wardrobes, but we have never had to cancel a performance until now,’ Leon Spachner company manager said.'”

Though one would think modern air and overnight shipping would prevent such an event in today’s world, think again. As reported by the Chicago Reader this past February: “Costumes for one of the most anticipated offerings of the season, the internationally celebrated Hamburg Ballet, headed by onetime Chicagoan John Neumeier, were stuck on a storm-delayed freighter. They wouldn’t make it to [the Harris Theater in] Chicago in time for the performances.”

The Hamburg Ballet costumes for their signature Third Symphony of Gustav Mahler never made it to the theater.

Amazingly, “That crisis was resolved before the public heard about it, when the legendary Paris Opera Ballet, another recent visitor to the Harris and one of the few other companies with the piece in their repertoires, came to the rescue, shipping its own costumes to Chicago by air. The Harris popped for alterations, and everything was back on track.”

But the Hamburg Ballet was twice-cursed in the “Windy City.” During the pre-opening dress rehearsal, an electrical fire broke out in the theater forcing the dancers out into the cold, some wearing just ballet slippers and tights. The show never went on.

Modern dance pioneer Martha Graham performing against a Noguchi-designed set in 1944

“In what has proved to be a fateful decision,” The New Yorker reported at the time, “the company’s sets and costumes—including pieces like the white throne from ‘Clytemnestra’ (1958) and the cloth set for ‘El Penitente’ (1940), both by [Isamu] Noguchi, as well as the Karinska gown from ‘Episodes’ (1959)—were placed in a series of rooms in the basement.”

Storage area for the Martha Graham Company following Hurricane Sandy.

Everything was later found to be submerged under six feet of water.

A similar waterlogged fate, but under very different circumstances, befell another historic ballet design when Markova was dancing with the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo in 1939. From The Making of Markova:

André Derain’s exquisite sets and costumes for Michel Fokine’s L’Epreuve d’Amour were lost at sea.

Dubbed “the Riviera afloat,” the gargantuan S.S. Rex was too large to enter Cannes harbor, where the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo was to disembark. That necessitated smaller boats being sent out to ferry the dancers, costumes, and cumbersome sets to the dock. As luck would have it, the Italian ocean liner was running late for its final destination, Genoa, so the captain decided to hurry things along.

In their haste, remembered Markova sadly, the overzealous crew ended up dumping several crates overboard. One was filled with André Derain’s exquisite Chinoiserie costumes and sets for [Michel Fokine’s] L’Epreuve d’Amour. The dancers watched horrified as the packing cases sank into the Mediterranean Sea and were quickly washed away. The company was never able to perform the ballet again.

Markova had her own series of costume mishaps at the Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo. As the first British prima ballerina in a predominantly Russian company, she was considered an interloper who had no right to “usurp” starring roles that “rightfully” belonged to the Russian ballerinas. (Markova’s great lifelong friend Alexandra Danilova, also a prima ballerina at the company, was happily an exception.) Not only did Markova have to contend with jealous dancers, but the all-Russian contingent of costume designers and seamstresses also had it in for her.

The first costume debacle occurred on opening night of Léonide Massine’s glorious Seventh Symphony in 1938. Markova starred as the “Spirit of the Air and Sky,” with a lighter-than-air costume designed by French artist Christian Bérard. Topping an all-over white silk leotard was a sky blue silk chiffon skirt appliquéd with almost imperceptible horsehair pale pink clouds. A larger cloud was to be appliquéd across Markova’s breast and one shoulder, leading up to a delicate winged hair ornament.

Bérard to the rescue.

On opening night, the Russian couturière Barbara Karinska (whose famous Martha Graham gown was destroyed in the above-mentioned flood) waited until the last minute to deliver Markova’s costume – or half a costume as it turned out. The ethereal skirt was finished but had no top or headpiece. Whether it was out of spite or poor planning, the result was the same. Markova couldn’t go on. Fortunately, the wildly creative Bérard came to the rescue. Rushing to Markova’s dressing room, he spotted a pale blue chiffon gown she had planned to wear to the after-party. Grabbing its matching scarf, the designer quickly draped and stitched the material into a top. Next he took a pair of scissors and cut wings from a piece of white paper, decorating them with black eyebrow pencil from the dressing table. The makeshift headpiece was fastened to her hair as Markova rushed on stage. The ballet was a triumph!

An unhappy pas de deux: egotistical Russian Serge Lifar had it in for the British Markova in Giselle (1938).

Markova’s next costume calamity was decidedly premeditated sabotage. Following her great success in Seventh Symphony, she was to star in the company’s debut performance of Giselle in London. It was Markova’s most acclaimed role to be danced in her hometown – sure to be a sellout.

But her partner was the egotistical Russian star Serge Lifar, who bizarrely re-choreographed the ballet to greatly expand his own role, that of Prince Albrecht. (A joke went around Paris that his Giselle should be renamed Albrecht!) Lifar wanted to dance London’s opening night with his fellow Russian, the beautiful Tamara Toumanova, a less fragile, curvier ballerina than the tiny Markova. The two Russian dancers were incensed that Toumanova had to play second fiddle to Markova. So too were the Russian seamstresses.

With constant costume sabotage, Markova kept a back-up Giselle costume under lock & key, like this one from 1934.

Quite nervous that her new costume wasn’t ready for the full dress rehearsal, Markova was nevertheless assured it would be in her dressing room opening night. When it finally arrived just a few minutes before curtain, lo and behold, the dress was way too big, having been “accidentally” made to fit Toumanova’s measurements. While this is a long and very entertaining story in all its detail (yes, you’ll have to buy The Making of Markova to find out!), Markova outfoxed everyone by bringing one of her old Giselle costumes to the theater as back-up. Lifar exploded, there were tears and screaming, but the show eventually went on.

Despite such a ruckus, Markova received an astounding 24 curtain calls, but Lifar refused to let her take any center stage bows without him. He was not only booed by the audience, but had to be physically restrained in the wings by stagehands to appease the Markova-loving crowd. This led to a major donnybrook – death threats, fisticuffs, and even a proprosed duel! – when Markova debuted the same role with Lifar at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York. For more on that story, see my former post “Dirty Work Afoot: Treachery at the Ballet.”

Markova continued to experience costume sabotage with the company: an Act II costume slashed while she was on stage in Act I, packing needles hidden in her tutus, and other nefarious plots to physically harm or unnerve her – all to no avail. She would become the most famous, widely traveled, and highest paid classical ballerina of her generation.

The “winged” Markova in Les Elfes. (photo, Gordon Anthony)

One of my favorite “costume” stories took place in 1934, the year Markova made her London debut in Giselle. From The Making of Markova: . . . even people who had never been to the ballet now knew the name of Markova. One evening, a taxi driver escorted the ballerina, her flowers, and costume/makeup cases home from the theater. As the driver helped unload all her belongings, he suddenly called, “Ere, Miss, you’ve left your wings in the cab.” “My wings?” Markova asked.

The driver pointed to a single remaining case. ”They tell me you’re the dancer with the invisible wings, so I suppose you take ‘em round with you.”

Markova did indeed appear to effortlessly fly on stage, sometimes even letting her “wings” show, as when costumed for Les Elfes or Les Sylphides, one of her most celebrated roles. A pair she wore in 1926 as a sylph at Diaghilev’s Ballets Russes is carefully preserved for posterity in The Australian Ballet Collection.

“A girl must eat, particularly a ballet girl,” Alicia Markova told the London Daily Herald in 1954. “She burns up tremendous energy.” Unfortunately, the opposite message was recently conveyed to students at the English National Ballet School, a company originally co-founded by Markova (as The Festival Ballet) in 1950.

“Fabulous to have students and staff back in school after the Xmas break,” read the Facebook post. “Time to work off all that Xmas food.” A swift backlash ensued. “Scrutiny of weight and expectations for dancers to be unnaturally thin are prevalent in the ballet world,” former National Ballet of Canada dancer Kathleen Rea told the London Evening Standard. “I think the only logical conclusion a student would have reading the post is that they need to lose weight.”

The womanly figure of Russian prima ballerina Tamara Karsavina was considered the ideal in the early 1900s

How times change. When Markova began dancing in the early 1920s, her naturally bone-thin physique was considered unattractive for a dancer. Robust, athletic figures, like that of celebrated Russian prima ballerina Tamara Karsavina, were then the norm. The sylphilke Anna Pavlova, who Markova closely resembled both physically and stylistically, was a noted exception. At first considered too fragile to attend the Maryinsky Ballet School, Pavlova only won her spot by showing a combination of fierce determination and poetry in movement. An exception was made.

The same could be said of the just turned-14 Lilian Alicia Marks, who Diaghilev asked to join his famed Ballets Russes in 1924, shocking the rest of the company. The rechristened Markova was so tiny and frail-looking compared to the more established ballerinas like the vivacious Lydia Sokolova (real name Hilda Munnings) and sparkling Alexandra Danilova (soon to become Markova’s lifelong best friend). A mere waif, Markova surprised them all with her unexpectedly dynamic athleticism.

Danilova at the Ballets Russes (Apollo, 1928)

Danilova – said to have had the loveliest legs in ballet – struggled with her weight briefly following her defection from Russia. It was in 1924, when she and soon-to-be-lover George Balanchine joined the Ballets Russes, having recently spent the summer performing in Berlin.

“Piano Mover” Anton Dolin with Alexandra Danilova, (Le Bal, 1929)

Best friends Markova and Danilova shared a healthy appetite (Photo from The Making of Markova)

“I had gained weight since leaving Russia – all that German food has made me plump,” Danilova wrote in her autobiography Choura. “I started to rehearse with [Anton] Dolin, he complained about having to lift me. ‘What do you think I am, a piano mover?’ he asked.

“One night, I asked Balanchine to go out into the audience and watch me. He came backstage after the performance and said, ‘You want the truth?’ ‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘Choura, you look terrible – you’ve gotten so fat. What happened to you?’ The next morning, I went straight to the pharmacy and bought a bottle of diet pills – one in the morning, one in the evening, the directions said. Well, I thought, I’ll take five and I will melt immediately.

George Balanchine at the Ballets Russes

“The next thing I remember George was shaking me – I had passed out. He picked up the bottle and asked me, ‘Is this what you took?’ ‘Yes,’ I answered. He opened the window and threw the bottle out, then gave me a lecture about how I should lose the extra weight.” After Danilova switched to a healthy – and hearty – diet with lots of fish and no more sweets, the extra pounds disappeared. “Life in Russia had been a diet in itself,” she joked. Choura’s self-imposed, and certainly ill-fated, get-thin-quick scheme is a cautionary tale for today’s dance students.

The featherweight Markova ate prodigiously (photo by Constantine)

Markova’s own diet proved shocking to peers, but for very different reasons. From The Making of Markova: Paper-thin, Markova looked as if a soft breeze could blow her down, with the press often speculating that she needed to eat more to keep up her strength. When she appeared in The Rake’s Progress, the Daily Sketch reviewer commented, “Markova, as the Betrayed Girl, was her exquisite self – a delight – but one wished for her art’s sake that she would eat a dozen steaks a day.” Little did he know about the dancer’s legendary appetite, as Marie Rambert (founder of London’s Ballet Club where Markova performed in the early 1930s) recalled quite vividly:

Markova “flying” in Giselle

“Everyone who sees Markova, that exquisite ethereal creature, must imagine she lives exclusively in the air. What was our staggering surprise when after our first matinee, in which she danced the most birdlike of Swans, she sent out for a large steak and kidney pie which she proceeded to consume with relish! We were even more staggered when, at the same evening’s performance, her Sylphides was lighter than air! Not one ounce of what she absorbs ever turns to fat. It is all transmuted into the most subtle instrument of dancing.

The other-worldly Markova in The Haunted Ballroom (1934)

“Happy Markova who can eat like a mortal and dance like an immortal.”

Equally in awe was dancer/choreographer Agnes de Mille, a student at Rambert’s Ballet Club when Markova was its reigning star. As de Mille wrote in her autobiography Speak to Me, Dance with Me: Alicia Markova, the stringiest girl I ever saw, a darling little skeleton, with the great eyes of a moth at the top, and a butterfly blur at the bottom where normally feet would be, and in between shocks and flashes of electricity.

Markova at the Ballet Club in Les Masques (1933)

When she paused there was the most beautifully surprising line I had ever looked at. She was twenty, although she looked much older because she was so thin. She didn’t look any age when she moved. She became a delicate force.

Throughout her career, the press often asked Markova for her “secret” diet tips to pass on to their weight-conscious readers. Her answer always astonished, as in this 1937 British newspaper interview titled No Special Diet – Markova Tells of Her Training: “On Sunday afternoon a petite dark-haired girl walked through the lounge of the Prince of Wales Hotel, settled herself in an armchair and ordered tea.

Markova photographed while eating a bountiful tea

“She had a very good tea. Scones, bread and butter and cakes. For although she is superlatively slim, with a figure like a nymph, she is one of those lucky people who never have to diet. ‘Tell me, how is it you are slight and dainty, when so many ballet dancers are muscular and inclined to heaviness?’ That amused Markova.

“’Oh, I have muscles, too, but they are not visible. Perhaps that is because I have had the right sort of training, and have been taught dancing by the right people. Also, I can relax my whole body quite completely. Apparently this is quite a rare accomplishment, so my masseuse tells me.’

Markova was known for her poise and “stillness” on and off stage

“That accounts for the remarkable poise. All through the interview her slim fingers lay quite composed in her lap, except when they were holding food. ‘No special diet then?’ Another dazzling smile. ‘No, quite the reverse, in fact. I believe that a dancer’s life is so strenuous he or she must eat plenty of nourishing food, otherwise they could not stand the pace. But I do not smoke at all – although I love chocolates!'” (See earlier post when Cadbury came calling!)

Markova ate more than partner Anton Dolin

In 1942, a reporter for the Cheyenne, Wyoming Eagle was equally amazed at Markova’s diet: “Only 97 pounds, Markova’s daily schedule is as strenuous as a longshoreman’s, and to keep up with her energy-consuming routine the dancer eats five times a day, plus a couple of strawberry milkshakes for good measure. As a child, she was painfully thin and anemic and at the recommendation of her doctor she took dancing lessons to build herself up. Today, though Markova looks as fragile as a china doll, she has the constitution of a powerhouse – and the enviable reputation of being one of the greatest ballerinas of all time.”

“If you still believe from the look of me that I live on butterfly wings, come out to dinner with me. But make sure you’ve got plenty of time.”

Markova quickly realized her voracious eating habits made for great press copy – and newspaper features sold tickets. That candor also endeared her to fans of both sexes, who found her healthy appetite downright refreshing in the rarified world of ballet. But on one occasion, Markova’s diet – or lack thereof – made headlines on two continents, turning into a marketing bonanza for a 1954 British countrywide tour with talented partner Milorad Miskovitch.

Markova and Miskovitch – as a pair, with no corps of other dancers – were booked to perform at the Liverpool Philharmonic Hall. But just before the set date, the Philharmonic Society cancelled the engagement, as amusingly recounted in the London Daily Express:

She Might Harm the Machinery: 7 st. Alicia “must not dance on our stage.” Seven-stone (98 pound) Alicia Markova, “the ballerina who lands like a snowflake,” has been refused permission to dance at the Liverpool Harmonic Hall – because her dainty movement might damage delicate machinery under the stage. The stage holds the weight of the 72-strong Philharmonic Orchestra. School choirs use the stage and hundreds of boys scurry across it to receive their prizes at school speech days.

But Markova – she drinks a bottle of stout every night to keep her weight from dropping below seven stone – has been told: “sorry, but we can’t allow you to dance on the stage.” Critics have said Markova defies the law of gravity. Anton Dolin, her former partner, once said: “I have to pluck her out of the air.” Mr. W. C. Stiff, secretary of the Philharmonic Society, said yesterday: “Delicate machinery which operates the 25ft.-high screen is housed under the stage. The corporation put a ban on dancing because of the risk of damaging machinery.” No exception. Mr. Stiff added: “Although the stage is used for a variety of purposes, the people do not dance. Markova dances.”

After performing in a boxing ring, Markova offered to “weigh-in” again at London’s Royal Albert Hall

She also knew a great story when she saw one. With Markova quotes like, “I’d be much more likely to float straight up and damage the ceiling!”, the ridiculous tale was picked up by the international newswires, appearing in papers throughout Europe and across the United States. But the press coverage didn’t stop there. Hoping to cash in on some of the publicity, owners of the Liverpool boxing ring offered their arena to Markova. They were undoubtedly shocked when she said “Yes!”

7st Alicia in wrestle-land, screamed the headline in one paper. Markova in ‘ring’ triumph, boasted another. “7 st. ballerina Alicia Markova tripped lightly back to a dressing room normally used by 20st. wrestlers. . . . her mirror propped on a massage table. On the walls were scrawled fighter’s autographs.” . . . “She had just come downstairs from the stadium itself where 3000 people had rapturously applauded her for five minutes.” . . . “Afterwards she sent a message to the audience, who had recalled her nine times: ‘Sign your programs, send them in, and I’ll autograph them all.'”

Anyone even marginally interested in ballet, art, or fashion should head to Washington D.C. this summer for the knock-out blockbuster exhibit “Diaghilev and the Ballets Russes, 1909-1929: When Art Danced with Music” at the National Gallery of Art. Adapted from a stellar 2010 exhibition at London’s Victoria & Albert Museum (curated by Jane Pritchard), the wildly colorful, entertaining, and often astonishing show celebrates one of the most innovative dance companies of all times. As the National Gallery explains, the Ballets Russes “propelled the performing arts to new heights through groundbreaking collaborations between artists, composers, choreographers, dancers, and fashion designers,” an unheard of phenomenon in the early 20th century.

It was visionary Russian impresario Sergei Diaghilev who brought together a Who’s Who of creative geniuses – Nijinsky, Pavlova, Picasso, Matisse, Man Ray, Bakst, Fokine, Stravinsky, Cocteau, Chanel, and countless others – creating nothing less than an aesthetic firestorm that electrified the world. The youngest-ever member and soloist of this illustrious company was 14-year-old Lilian Alicia Marks. Though known to dislike children, Diaghilev developed a close bond with the frail British dance prodigy after first seeing her perform as a 10-year-old.

A very youthful 14-year-old Markova at the Ballets Russes

Surprising everyone, Diaghilev became a father figure to the earnest, painfully shy girl, whisking her away from foggy London to sun-drenched Monte Carlo, home of the famed Ballets Russes. There Diaghilev renamed his “little daughter” (as he fondly called her) Alicia Markova, and began her fairy-tale education. “Uncle Igor” Strainvinsky was Markova’s music instructor, Matisse and Picasso taught her about modern art, and she learned about fashion from none other than Coco Chanel.

“To my dear little thing,” Balanchine wrote to Markova

Also joining the company in 1924 was the untested, up-and-coming choreographer George Balanchine. Because of Markova’s astounding technique – able to do many jumps and spins formerly only performed by men – Balanchine selected the practically mute teenager to star in his first ballet for Diaghilev: Le Chant du Rossignol (The Song of The Nightingale). It would be a huge success for them both, with Balanchine on his way to becoming the most influential choreographer of the 20th century, and Markova a future world famous prima ballerina. The Nightingale introduced Balanchine’s never-before-seen modern balletic stylings and Markova’s ability to effortlessly float and fly like a bird.

Markova in a Matisse-designed costume for The Song of the Nightingale (1927)

The photo above shows Markova in a Matisse-designed costume for the ballet, but it wasn’t the original one she wore for the 1925 premiere. While Alicia had been picturing a brown-feathered tutu for the role of a tiny bird, Matisse had other ideas, as the ballerina reminisces in The Making of Markova: “Listen little one,” Matisse was saying, “white silk tights all over, then white satin ballet shoes, large diamond [rhinestone] bracelets around both ankles, the wrist of one arm, and the other just here above the elbow, a little white bonnet like a baby’s and no hair to show. Please dear remember, no hair.”

For Rouge et Noir (1939), Henri Matisse designed another iconic costume for Markova

For the first time in ballet history, a ballerina appeared on stage wearing nothing but a second-skin leotard, and in white georgette, the teenaged Markova looked practically nude! She was so tiny and under-developed for her age, however, that the 14-year-old looked anything but vulgar, completely charming the French audiences. England was another story, however. When the Lord Chamberlain got wind of the “risqué” costume, he banned London’s own little Alicia from wearing it on stage. Matisse saved the day by designing a white chiffon tunic and pants (as seen in the photo above) so the show could go on.

1929 Ballets Russes program with cover by Giorgio de Chirico illustrating his costume designs for Le Bal (1929), such as the one worn by Markova seen here

Markova saved all the glorious Ballets Russes programs from her magical time with the company. Cover illustrations, costume designs, and photographs were created by the likes of Picasso, Derain, de Chirico, Braque, Miro, and Man Ray among others. They are part of the vast Alicia Markova Collection at the Howard Gotlieb Archival Research Center at Boston University and will be on view with other personal memorabilia belonging to the legendary ballerina from July through November 2013. The Making of Markova exhibit is free and open to the public in the Gotlieb Memorial Gallery on the first floor of the Mugar Memorial Library at Boston University.

A Man Ray photo of Markova in La Chatte (1927)

The five years Markova spent at the Ballets Russes were the most influential of her career. In addition to being trained by the unquestioned creative superstars of her day, she met many dancers, choreographers, composers, and artists who became lifelong friends and colleagues. Seven years older than Markova, Alexandra Danilova was both Balanchine’s lover and a protective big sister to the timid dancer when they met. Two of the greatest ballerinas of their generation, the pair would be one another’s confidante, playmate, teacher and supporter for seven decades. Markova was eternally grateful to the man who that made all of that possible – the incomparable Sergei Diaghilev

The exquisite Alexandra Danilova, Markova’s dearest friend, dancing with the egotistical Serge Lifar (Markova’s future bête-noir) in the Ballets Russes production of Appolon musagète (1928) with costumes by Coco Chanel.

“A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose” wrote Gertrude Stein. Can the same be said for a nose? Each is special – speaking to family and heritage, yet the same – in function and placement. Then why are so many people anxious to change theirs?

June is one of the most popular months for nose jobs. Students have the entire summer for post-surgery recuperation and time to get used to a new face.

Kate Middleton: nose de jour

According to Time magazine, “women in New York are reportedly paying $12,000 for nose jobs to make themselves look like Kate Middleton; one surgeon estimated he has already performed 100 such royal rhinoplasties.” But is “Middleton of the road,” really the way to go?

The glorious Streisand profile

Many world-famous celebrities were pressured to have their noses “fixed,” most often so they would appear less ethnic. Barbra Streisand may be the most famous in that regard. (As a child, I was actually briefly related to Ms. Streisand when she was married to my cousin Eliott Gould. I thought her quite stunning – and riotously funny.) When asked why she never had her prominent nose altered, Streisand said it was a combination of worry it wouldn’t be done correctly – she would have left the bump and just slightly shortened the tip, and fear that it might change her singing voice – clearly a catastrophe!

Markova was pressured her to have her nose “fixed” by partner Anton Dolin

Alicia Markova was continuously pressured to have her own distinctive nose fixed, a suggestion she always politely turned down. Dance partner Anton Dolin, choreographer Frederick Ashton, and impresario Sol Hurok all feared the ballerina’s “looking Jewish” would damage her career in times of rampant anti-Semitism during the 1930s and ’40s; and indeed, Markova would have to battle insidious prejudices in her early years. But she was also fiercely proud of her religion and heritage, becoming the first openly Jewish classical prima ballerina in history. I write “openly,” because Anna Pavlova was Jewish but hid that fact for fear it would ruin her career. (Jews weren’t allowed to attend the Maryinsky Ballet School in St. Petersburg where Pavlova trained).

Margot Fonteyn’s nose pre-surgery

In stark contrast to Markova, the very pretty, and very Catholic, prima ballerina Margot Fonteyn immediately had a nose job – unfortunately initially botched – upon being told she looked a “little Jewish” by choreographer Roland Petit. As you can see in the photo at left, she was quite lovely pre-surgery.

Alexandra Danilova’s nose cost her a film role.

Alexandra Danilova’s million dollar legs

Markova’s lifelong best friend was the delightfully effervescent Russian prima ballerina Alexandra Danilova, known for having the most beautiful legs in ballet – New York City Ballet Director Lincoln Kirstein likened them to “luminous wax”. Though a remarkable and enormously popular dancer, Danilova lost a coveted Hollywood film role because of her nose, as explained by Leslie Norton in her biography of Danilova’s frequent dance partner Frederick Franklin, who sadly passed away just last month at the age of 98. The movie was based on Léonide Massine’s Gaîté Parisienne, one of Danilova’s signature ballets, but the director of The Gay Parisian (1941), Jean Negulesco, said he didn’t like the tilt of Danilova’s nose. “My nose doesn’t dance!” she snapped back.

Markova agreed. Her nose was her nose was her nose. The Jewish ballerina’s prodigious talent and mesmerizing stage presence handily won over critics and audiences alike, with her dramatic profile actually adding a haunting beauty to many of her roles (as seen below). Markova and Danilova would have the last laugh (The Gay Parisian film was a flop), becoming two of the best-loved dancers of their generation.

One of my favorite Markova stories was when she was working at the Metropolitan Opera in New York. She got her heel caught in a metal grate and in the few seconds she was falling to the ground, thought of all the men who had pestered her to have her nose fixed, and now she was about to break it. So what did she do? Turn the other cheek – which she broke – to save that beloved, oft-disparaged nose.